


Home

by Corona



Category: Blades of Light and Shadow (Visual Novel)
Genre: Angst, Developing Relationship, Established Relationship, Fantastic Racism, House Nightbloom, Identity Issues, M/M, Romance, Undermount
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:20:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23959828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corona/pseuds/Corona
Summary: Isleatias joins his people and earns his place among them.
Relationships: Tyril Starfury/Main Character (Blades of Light and Shadow)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 10





	Home

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think, please. Also, credit for some of the names (Isleatias, Roshan, Halani) goes to FenxShiral and their [Project Elvhen: Book of Names](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4401050?view_full_work=true).

They haven't got far up the mountain when Isleatias begins to mutter himself. The words are indistinguishable to all but Tyril, and even he can only just keep up with the rapid pace at which Isleatias speaks what little elven he knows.

He mutters greetings, farewells, terms of address, how to enquire after someone's health and to respond to such an enquiry, mottos of houses, essential phrases—anything and nearly everything that he has learnt in the past weeks. Here and there, he lapses for a moment into the common tongue before making a concerted effort to return to elven. "No, _no_ , that's for a social inferior," he gasps, more than once. "We're not _insulting_ anyone—was it _hlasvera ranals_ or _hlasanra taprals_ —holy _hells_ —dammit—" Tyril cuts him off with a gentle reminder, and Isleatias falls silent for a few moments before starting up his murmuring again. The pattern repeats itself almost endlessly.

After an hour of this, Nia looks at him. "Isleatias, are you well?" she asks, while Mal and Imtura glance at each other and shake their heads in the background.

Isleatias lets out a long, low moan and runs his hands over his face and through his perfectly combed hair. At once, he realises what he has done, and he starts patting it down and smoothing it out, hands flying through it. "No! No! Light, no," he says, almost squeaks. He spares Nia the briefest glance. "But don't worry. I'm just… trying to remember… stuff…"

"Why remember stuff when the resident lordling is here to guide you through all the niceties?" Mal interjects, gesturing to Tyril, whose gaze is trained on something far off and who gives no sign that he even heard.

"Because I want to make a good impression and interact with my people in our language!" Isleatias says, voice climbing up until it's almost shrill. "I need to remember this stuff! They won't like me if I can't even talk to them like an elf!"

Imtura saunters over to him and Nia. "Sorry, landrat, but I suspect they might not like you anyway. Your kind aren't the most welcoming and tolerant in the world."

Isleatias flushes violet and buries his face in one hand while the other pats down his clothes for the thousandth time. Nia shoots Imtura an admonishing glance. "Imtura! These are _his_ people. Can you really blame him for wanting them to accept him?" After a long moment, Imtura sighs and relents, and the walk continues in a silence broken only by Isleatias' increasingly frantic muttering and last-minute grooming.

Only when they reach the gate, some hours of this later, does it finally stop, broken off by Isleatias freezing in his tracks and letting out a gasp that sounds much like a sob.

"It may be hard for you to come back," he murmurs to Tyril as they walk ahead of the party some minutes later, "but I don't even know if I was born here or not." He stares up at the mountain. "I'm an elf, and I know _nothing_ about our people, our culture…"

Tyril's hand finds his and squeezes it. "I hadn't thought about what it must be like for you."

"It's exciting and scary all at once. I always dreamt of visiting Undermount, but I… I never thought I'd really get to." His voice catches. Yet again, he pats down his clothes, and he keeps his gaze cast low and his shoulders stiff and straight, as though he were in the presence of a superior. "I never thought I was worthy of it… being a human in elven skin… What will they think of me? Will they accept me? Or judge me as an outsider?" He stares up at Tyril then, beseeching, as if all the acceptance he could ever need lies in this one elf.

"I won't lie to you, Isleatias," Tyril says. "Many will be cruel and judgemental. Many will find you unworthy." Quickly, as the blood drains from Isleatias' face, he adds, "They will be wrong. You are as worthy of your lineage as any of them. More so than many."

He says it with such fierce determination and conviction, and Isleatias smiles. But the words still do nothing to wipe away the look of unutterable terror that has come over his face.

* * *

Soon enough, they stand within the citadel of Undermount, overlooking the sprawling streets full of elves, the ancient stone buildings dotted with treasures older than the elves themselves, and the brilliant shining light. While Threep jumps onto Isleatias' shoulder to see for himself before recoiling from the light just as quickly and the others make their talk, Isleatias staggers, and the breath leaves him in a rush.

If only he could have more eyes to look at all that there is to see—the beauty and splendour of the buildings, the ancient history, the magic, the light, the _people_. "Elves," he whimpers, staring down at them. "Look, elves! Just like…" But here, he runs out of breath, and he staggers again, and his hand comes to his forehead.

Threep squawks. "Best you sit down and breathe before you faint and dump me on the stone!" he says, drawing the others' attention.

"Oh, Isleatias! You look so pale!" Nia cries, and at once, she rushes to his side while Threep flutters to Tyril's shoulder. She helps him sit down, and Isleatias rests his head between his knees and breathes in shallow gasps, fingers trembling.

Imtura raises an eyebrow. "… Did you just almost _faint_ , landrat?"

It is Tyril's turn to shoot her a reproving look, even as he glances around, uncertainty in every line of him. "This is difficult for him. Let him have a minute to recover."

"There are… _elves_ ," Isleatias says again, lifting his head. "People like me and you!" For half a moment, his bright blue eyes sparkle, and colour floods his face, but just as quickly, he starts looking around. "Oh, hells, please tell me nobody saw that. I wouldn't want them to think…"

"I promise you, nobody did," Tyril tells him. He manages a smile, but dismay mingles with his amusement. How little time it took for the poor man to start worrying about his reputation and taking steps to correct it. Perhaps this is an innate part of being an elf, after all, as depressing a thought as that is.

A few moments later, Isleatias climbs to his feet. His breathing remains unsteady, and his trembling is worsening almost by the second, but the colour is back in his cheeks, and he no longer sways on his feet. "Oh, but this is a dream given shape," he murmurs, staring out over the vista again. "Far beyond all my wildest fancies—and hardly a night went by when I did not dream of this." A hand comes up to tug at the old necklace he wears. "But I used to imagine that I lived in the golden age of the elven empire, too. Beauty and magic everywhere. And I… I wasn't alone. Everyone looked like _me_."

Imtura folds her arms and scoffs. "And everyone who _wasn't_ an elf had to hide in dark corners like the vermin they thought they were," she snaps, but when Isleatias recoils from her, eyes widening with hurt, she softens. "It wasn't a golden age for everyone, landrat. The elves weren't any more welcoming or tolerant than now."

" _Your people_ had an empire too," Isleatias protests, face flooding with colour, eyes flashing. "And you still have a city of thousands!" But, like Imtura, he too soon deflates. His shoulders slump, and he looks away, his eyes now wet. "Maybe if the Great War hadn't happened, they could have learnt. Grown. Everyone can do that."

"Perhaps," Tyril says, and he allows no more discussion and leads them down the path to the main thoroughfare.

A short time later, after they've gone through the vines and the hidden door to escape the crowd, while Threep basks in the wonder of admiration long lost, Mal spares Isleatias a glance. "You still _breathing_ over there, kit?" he asks, noting the pallor of his face—yet again—and the ever-worsening tremble in his fingers.

Isleatias jumps like he's been shocked. "Uh, yes!" he gasps. But the weakness of his voice belies his words; it seems likely that he's hardly breathed at all in the past few minutes of confusion, surrounded by elves in awe of their Exalted One, addressed directly by one or two. His heart pounds away in his chest, and a bead of sweat rolls down his forehead as he wrings his hands.

Mal shakes his head but questions him no further, and they carry on from there, interrupted only by the pressure plate that Isleatias deftly defends himself from and the lore tablet they find just beyond it.

* * *

Sometime after they return to the streets, while Isleatias blushes bright violet from Tyril's whispered words to him and wrings his hands harder than ever, Tyril concedes to the others' desire for some entertainment. "I think I know what you might enjoy. One of Undermount's greatest secrets… a chamber of infinite mysteries and pleasures…"

As if on cue, Mal looks intrigued, Isleatias snaps his head up to look at Tyril and starts all but bouncing on his feet, Nia smiles, and Imtura grins. "Mysteries and pleasures are two of my favourite things," she says, while Isleatias seems to restrain himself from tapping his feet in sudden impatience. Even as he does so, his eyes rove like a child's, searching and seeing, drinking in the dream he has long been denied. His breath comes now rapidly and unevenly.

"Picture a room filled to the brim with magic, making you the audience for visions no one has seen in a thousand years or more," Tyril continues, and Isleatias, as predictable as ever, at once affixes his gaze to him. His eyes bulge out, bright blue and sparkling, overwhelmed in every sense.

"What sort of visions?" Nia asks, seeming almost as awed already.

Tyril smiles. "Secret ones."

Isleatias makes a noise of protest. " _Secret_ —you teasing—do you even need to _ask?_ " he demands, and Tyril chuckles. "Hells, yes!"

Mal pats him on the back, grinning. "That's the spirit, kit. We gotta let loose. Elven style."

"If you can even _call_ that 'letting loose'," Imtura interjects, teasing as well, but Isleatias seems so overexcited already, with a flush in his cheeks and a gleam in his eye much like a child's, that he doesn't bother to respond.

"I'll suppose you'll see for yourself," Tyril says. "Now stay close." He leads them through the town, and Isleatias' breathing grows steadily unsteadier with almost every step they take, though he does not crumple down as he did when they first entered. Every sight, every sound, every touch, every smell stimulates him and excites him all the more, and he seems deaf to everything but Tyril's words, blind to all but the man himself.

_Home,_ he thinks, and Kade doesn't even cross his mind. _Oh, this is home. Gods of my ancestors, thank you so much!_

When they reach the library, at last, see for themselves the enormous collection of scrolls, books, and relics beyond counting, Isleatias' hands immediately come up to cover his mouth. Yet again, he almost sways on his feet while Imtura and Mal roll their eyes (albeit rather fondly) behind him. "I present to you… the Grand Library, our jewel of Undermount," Tyril says, his smile widening just a little, perhaps at Isleatias' awe.

"A _library_ ," Mal mutters. "I don't know what I expected."

"Don't be an ass," Isleatias says, squeaking again. "Look at this place! There must be so much history here…"

"More than you know," Tyril tells him. "But if you'll excuse me, I must have a word with the head cleric. Feel free to enjoy yourselves for the time being… _within reason_."

Isleatias raises an eyebrow. "You don't need to tell me that." While Mal and Imtura chuckle almost conspiratorially to themselves and Tyril glares at them, he takes another sweeping look around. "So, uh, where are the genealogies?"

That puts an end to Mal's laughter. " _Genea_ —he said to have _fun_ , kit!"

"It would be fun!" Isleatias says, grinning at the look of abject horror on Mal's face. "And also very important to me, personally."

"The genealogies are towards the back of the library, but I doubt there'll be time for you to find what you need," Tyril says. "Even if either of us knew from whence you came, it would take hours of patient study to track your lineage."

Isleatias deflates. "So, save it for another visit?"

"Ideally, yes." The younger elf nods, but the spark has not gone out of his eyes. When Tyril leaves to speak to the cleric, he spends a full minute staring around in indecisive amazement before being distracted by Mal's discovery of elven smut.

"I cannot believe you," he complains a few minutes later, as they make their way up to the visions room. "A library of this size and you go for the _smut_."

Mal only smirks at him, a swagger in his steps. "You're the one who came over to look. Don't blame me for your life decisions." Unable to think of a proper response to that, Isleatias instead grumbles under his breath until they enter the room and his mouth falls open once again.

"Are you saying… I can see my history in this room?" he breathes after Tyril has explained what the Light allows the elves to see in these crystals. "I'll be able to see what it means to be an elf?" His voice trembles with the awe one might feel at meeting a god, and in the light, his eyes seem to shine.

Tyril smiles at him. "This is your birthright, Isleatias. I'm glad I can be the one to introduce you to it," he says. Isleatias turns his gaze to him and stares at him with nothing short of complete adoration in his face.

"Please," he whispers.

* * *

As soon as the first vision begins, however, Isleatias' joy turns to sorrow so deep it seems to be inscribed in his bones—an ancestral pain that he has carried all his life even when he knew no other elf. His shoulders slump lower and lower as the moments pass, and his words come out strangled, weak, at times almost pleading. By the time they reach the third vision, that of the Deadwood as it once was, there is no awe. A silent tear slips down his face as he turns away.

"I wish our people weren't responsible for this," he gasps, choking, breath hitching. " _We_ did this. Elves. It was _our_ people who became the Shadow Court, and our people who destroyed our own."

"And _our_ people who fought them and sealed them in the Realm of Shadow," Tyril reminds him. If he is as affected, he shows no signs of it, though there is a gentleness in his eyes as he gazes upon the distressed Isleatias.

"At the cost of, what? Nearly all our civilisation? All but a few hundred?" Isleatias mutters. He shrugs, bitterness lancing through him. "How could we ever rebuild and reclaim our glory from that?"

Tyril lets out a soft sigh and approaches, putting a hand on the small of his back. "I cannot answer that. But if you had been there, Isleatias, if any of us had, I have no doubt we all would have fought on the side of the Light."

"And _died_ in the doing."

At that, Tyril turns away, bowing his head as well, and he touches the crystal and brings them into another memory. For Isleatias, it is bitterer and more painful yet, and he is still hugging himself when they return to the visions room some minutes later.

"The elves of the empire were so preoccupied in their insular society and power struggles, they failed to see the real danger," Tyril says. "I worry we are making the same mistake now. We don't work together. We don't scruple at anything that might gain us power."

Isleatias draws in a long, shaky breath and stiffens. "Dammit, no. Far be it from me to suggest changes for a society I don't know, but it doesn't have to be this way. Think of what could change if everyone saw what we just did. If all the people in Morella knew…"

Mal looks hard at Tyril. "Yeah. Why do you keep something like this locked away?"

"These memories are sacred!" Tyril protests.

"I know," Isleatias says. "But what better way to honour them than to spread their story, to let others learn from them? Don't you think that's what they would have wanted?"

A moment's pause, then Tyril inclines his head. "I… suppose I hadn't thought of it like that. But I agree," he says, and he takes the memory of Valen's fall from the wall and places it in his satchel. Soon, they are on their way back down, heading out of the library.

As they head towards his home, Tyril leans into Isleatias slightly. "Take heart. Do you know your name means 'man crowned with Light'?" When Isleatias jumps and stares up at him, eyes bulging, he manages a smile. "It is an old name, one families used to give to children who they hoped would be skilled battlemages. Whoever your parents were, whatever happened to them… I think they foresaw a proud future for you."

Isleatias catches his breath and, once again, turns violet. "Th-thank you, Tyril. That means a lot," he says, and after a few moments, his smile returns.

* * *

"And _you_ ," Kaya says, coolly, sticking her chin in the air and staring down at Isleatias—though they are roughly the same height—like she's just stepped in a turd. "You aren't from Undermount. I wonder what pitiful gutter Tyril dragged you from, outcast."

Isleatias has been glaring daggers at Kaya up until now, but at these words, he falters, hunching over and hugging himself loosely. "Not an outcast by choice," he murmurs. "My name is Isleatias. I do not know who my parents were. I was raised by humans, but I have always hoped to be a part of you—"

Kaya snorts. "Oh, raised by humans! Even better. With human norms, no doubt. Human customs, human standards, human everything. And no magical instruction, I'll wager. Well, you're here now, whelp. But you've no sponsor, no place, no training, no nothing. You can contribute _nothing_ to us. How could you?" She smiles, cold and cruel, and catches Isleatias' gaze as his lips trembles. "You sound like nothing more than a _human in elven skin_."

At that, Isleatias quails, and he turns away, shaking from head to toe. Silently, he buries his face in his hands.

"Oh, that is _it!_ " Imtura snarls, and in seconds, she and Mal have whipped out their weapons.

"No!" Nia cries, though she too looks daggers at Kaya even as she interposes herself between them. "Do not attack her! It gains us nothing!"

Mal's eyes are flaming, his hands gripping his daggers so tightly the knuckles are turning white. "I won't let this arrogant know-all _shit_ speak to him in that way!" To the side, Isleatias rocks on his heels and sobs, and again, Mal and Imtura try to hurl themselves at Kaya and are kept back only by Nia and Tyril's efforts.

Kaya chuckles as she watches. "Oh, what an impressive bunch you have here," she drawls as she displays an envelope. "Feel free to bring them tomorrow, Tyril. I don't suppose you could bring House Starfury any lower if you tried." Tyril snatches the envelope, and while the confrontation continues, Nia steps away from a still-seething Mal and Imtura and wraps her arms around Isleatias.

"She is wrong," she says softly. "You are so worthy, Isleatias. Don't ever let anyone make you think otherwise. You're as much an elf as the rest of them. Hush, it's all right…" But Isleatias continues to sob, tears flowing freely, and at last, Nia settles for pulling him into a full hug and resting his head on her shoulder.

"Consider this my personal invitation for you all to join us at the festivities," Kaya says, at last, several agonising minutes later. "They'll be positively to die for." Then, with that, she is gone.

Moments after, Isleatias pulls away from Nia, though he continues to hiccough, and tears keep flowing down his face. While the angry words are murmured around him, he holds himself, shudders wracking his body, and his cheeks burn with humiliation. The mocking words lance through him over and over, committing themselves to his memory for they are words he has said to himself so often, and he sniffles.

"This masquerade sounds like a trap, doesn't it?" Nia says eventually, shoulders slumping as well.

Here, Isleatias sucks in a breath. When he speaks, his voice trembles with almost as much force as his body. "A trap, but… also our best chance at getting into Duskraven Manor," he says. His eyes are blank, staring at nothing. "And while we're there, we can ask about the Shard. Maybe… one of the other houses knows more about what happened to the Shard after the elven civil war. But… what would I know… I'm just…"

"Don't say that," Tyril says. His voice is rough. "Don't ever say it. Don't let her _win_." But Isleatias only shrugs, and as plans are made, and they all move to leave, he remains silent and defeated, Kaya's words echoing endlessly in his mind.

* * *

Valir Starfury is, thankfully, a kinder man. Though his nod of acknowledgement to Isleatias is polite and wary both, there is no judgement in his eyes for an elven stranger in non-elven clothing. That is some balm, as was Tyril's declaration that they are his friends, but it does nothing to stop the echoes in Isleatias' mind, the filth crawling over his skin. "And what brings such an unusual group to Undermount?" the older man asks, and Isleatias cringes and looks at the floor.

A silence. Finally, Tyril coughs. "Isleatias, he's asking you."

Isleatias jumps, blushing violet once again, and stares at Tyril's father with a hint of panic in his eyes. "Oh! Begging your pardon, my lord! I did not think you would ask me—" He swallows, wringing his hands and shifting from foot to foot, unable to meet anyone's gaze. "Er, oh hells, I mean… we're here to support Tyril. He wanted to come home, but we didn't want him to have to face Undermount alone." His voice trails off into a whisper, and he looks down and does not see the lord's smile.

"You are dear friends indeed," he says. "Undermount society can be vicious. Especially after what happened." He offers a polite bow. "I am Valir Starfury, the head of our house. Be welcome."

Isleatias returns the bow, shaking as he does. The older man casts a searching glance on him. "I don't believe I've seen you before," he says. "Are you from outside Undermount?" There is no judgement in his voice, but Isleatias still winces as he nods.

When he says nothing, Tyril explains it for him. "His name is Isleatias. He is a stripling, an outcast, and an orphan raised by humans. He is here to meet our people and learn of his heritage as much as he is to help me."

Here, Isleatias looks up, hugging himself as if he expects a rebuke, but Valir Starfury only inclines his head and offers another smile, one that's somewhat melancholic. "Then welcome to Undermount. I only wish I could provide you with an introduction more fitting of our family's former status."

Isleatias audibly gulps. "Your kindness is enough, m-my lord. Th-thank you," he stammers in broken elven. Valir is about to respond when Adrina rushes into the room, and the conversation is redirected to another subject entirely.

Later, at the table, Adrina tells her story and meets with the rapt attention of her listeners—all, that is, but Isleatias, who remains silent, keeps his gaze downcast, and whose hands shake so hard they rattle his cutlery against the plate. While the others laugh, he remains in place, affecting dutifulness and respect even as he knows that he knows nothing of how to behave here. When Adrina shifts her gaze to him, he does not notice.

"I've been dying to ask," she says, grinning, "what it's like travelling with my brother? I'm surprised he's made so many friends!"

Another pause. Tyril coughs again. "Isleatias."

And, yet again, Isleatias jumps and blushes violet. By this point, the others muse, he's becoming as predictable as the tides—more so, if anything. "Er. Begging your pardon, my lady. But why are you asking me?"

Mal laughs. "Do you really want her to ask _me_?" he says, raising an eyebrow, and Isleatias' blush only deepens.

Adrina gives him a piercing look. "Is there something the matter? You seem ill at ease."

While Nia leans over to rub Isleatias' shoulder, Tyril looks at her. "He's new to our society, and he wants to make a good impression. I think he's scared he's going to say the wrong thing or make some breach of protocol that he doesn't know about."

"Ah." Adrina nods, understanding. When Isleatias looks up, at last, she catches his gaze and offers a small smile. "You needn't worry. I won't judge you, and neither will Father. And it's _not_ just because we're hardly in the position to judge. I know many will disrespect you because you are an outcast, but we have always held that outcasts are as worthy as the rest of us." At this, Isleatias manages to return her smile, though it is tentative.

"Th-thank you, my lady," he says, and he straightens, visibly gaining confidence. "Well, if you're asking me… Our first meeting started with him _shoving_ me while I gawked at him like an idiot." Despite himself, Tyril chuckles and turns violet as well. "But he's a good man. He's been teaching me the things I never knew, about magic and elves and our heritage. We… stay up a lot, talking around the campfire…" For a moment, he hesitates again, and he avoids Tyril's gaze even as his smile tugs at the corners of his lips. "I feel like I can tell him anything… and he trusts me the same way. Um."

At that, the most knowing grin breaks out over Adrina's face. "Oh my! I won't ask, but you make it sound like…"

"Maybe?" Isleatias admits, his own smile widening. "You could say so?"

While Adrina giggles, Tyril's blush spreads from his cheeks to his ears, turning them a lovely shade of purple. He shoots the younger elf a look of utter betrayal as the words fall from his mouth. "Isleatias, please, not in front of my sister!" In response, Isleatias only joins in Adrina's giggling and resettles himself in his seat, the tension leaving his muscles at last.

Even when the conversation turns to more pressing matters, he remains relaxed and calm, able to look the older elves in the eye, and when they leave the table, the spring in his step has returned. If he still muses over Kaya's harsh words, still feels the shame and unworthiness crawling across his skin, he gives no sign of either.

* * *

"You cannot trust in friendship, nor love, nor vows of loyalty, only to the strength of our house and our blood," Lady Farin's spectre says, chiding. Tyril bows his head, enduring like a child being scolded; the shame radiates off him in waves. Next to him, Isleatias, who has remained on his knees with his head almost touching one of the said knees this entire time, makes a little noise of protest and finally dares to look up.

For a long moment, he struggles with his words, with his instinct to not talk back to a social superior, even one that is long dead. But at last, he says in very broken elven, "With respect, Lady Starfury, Tyril's friendship with Kaya may be the only reason Undermount won't fall to the Shadow Court. He's searching for the Onyx Shards to save her. Once they're destroyed, the Shadow Court's influence will be driven out of Undermount."

Keeping an eye on her, shivering and tensing as though he expects some retribution for this, Isleatias leans into Tyril and touches his shoulder, trying to get him to look up. "What we have…" he whispers, and this time, he manages to speak in more complete elven, "the feelings I have for you, Tyril… they're not a weakness. They're… they help give me the strength to do this." He reaches for Tyril's hand, and a tiny smile plays at the corners of his mouth when Tyril grabs it and looks up.

"Isleatias is right, my honoured ancestor," he says, with new strength in his voice. "It is my friendships, my _love_ for my friends, that will let me restore our house. Not posturing and competition."

The ghost's brow lifts, and moments later, she places a finger between Isleatias' eyes, almost at the top of his nose. Her touch is like ice, but though Isleatias shivers, he barely flinches, and his eyes remain trained on Tyril as if there's nothing else in the world but this strange little congregation he could never have dreamed of being involved in when he lived in Riverbend.

"Your blood tastes of House Nightbloom, child," Lady Farin says. At this, Isleatias' head snaps up, and his mouth falls open. Almost unconsciously, his hand moves to grip his old necklace. "But House Nightbloom is no more. Who are you?"

"I… I am no one, my lady," he whispers, voice trembling. "An orphan raised by humans. I… I know nothing of my parents, or of being an elf, or of… House Nightbloom. Was that… were they my…"

Lady Farin casts a keen, searching glance over him. "Perhaps. It is hard to tell from a look. But whoever you are, you dare to defy me, one of the great Ladies of the elven empire… and make a good case for it."

While Isleatias falls silent, lost in his new wonder, Tyril gazes his ancestor down with new strength in every line and pore of him. When he speaks, his voice is firm at last. "I will restore our house, honoured ancestor, but my quest comes first. I must seal the Shadow Court back into its own realm."

His ancestor smiles a grim smile, but Isleatias hardly notices, nor does he hear the words Tyril speaks in response. His mind is too far away yet too close at hand, focused on the necklace he has had since he was a baby, a simple chain of silver links holding a pearl cut into the shape of a waxing crescent moon. _Nightbloom…_ He had always thought the necklace was a token. It might well be… but what else is it? What is he carrying? What does it symbolise?

_Was this a gift, Mother and Father? A sign that I am the last? What is—_

His attention is drawn at last by the appearance of the shimmering blade, and he only barely manages to keep from letting out a low whistle at the sight. "This is the blade your ancestor used to face the Beast of Blood at Cragheart. It has sat in these crypts for centuries, waiting for a proper owner."

"No," Tyril says, and Isleatias stares at him. "I am not worthy of it. Not until I have restored my house."

Isleatias is about to let out a shout of protest when Lady Farin smiles and says, "A noble gesture. Then let me offer it, for now, to another."

She turns to him, and Isleatias shrinks away, eyes bulging, hands tightening on the pearlescent moon. "It is clear that this child of House Nightbloom is your conscience and your guide. I offer _you_ the protection of the Blade of Sol. Use it to protect the son of my house, and return the Shadow Court to its prison."

Isleatias audibly swallows. "I am… honoured by your trust in such an unskilled elf, Lady of House Starfury. I won't fail you." Her smile now is genial as she passes the blade to him, and his eyes widen further, glinting with awe, as the steel gleams in his hand. At last, he gets to his feet, and with great reverence, he swishes the sword through the air; it moves with such speed that it almost blurs.

"I will be worthy of this," he says. "I _will_ be."

Moments later, after some final words, the spirit is gone, and Tyril stares after her. His face falls.

"You won her over, Tyril," Isleatias tells him, whispering once again. "I'm sure of it."

"I hope so, Isleatias. To have met Lady Farin and _not_ measure up… the shame would be unbearable."

Isleatias shakes his head. "But I think she finally saw what _I_ see in you."

That, at last, gets him a smile. "Because you were willing to stand up to her, you realise? But what is it that _you_ see?"

Isleatias blushes and looks away, squaring his shoulders as if Tyril's reminder has given him new strength. "Someone who's going to shake our people out of their complacency and remind them that they were once the people who fought off the Dreadlord."

Tyril's smile widens, though he tries to suppress it. "I don't know about _that_." Then he sobers, shifting his gaze back down to the scorched map, tracing a path to the Shrine of the Eldest. Soon enough, they are all four of them set off towards it, and it is not long before Isleatias can no longer contain himself.

"But… House Nightbloom? What did she mean by that? Tyril, do you know—"

Mal coughs. "Not sure now is the time or the place, kit."

While Isleatias glares at him, hurt, Tyril nods slowly and shoots him the most sympathetic look he can muster. "He's right. I might know something… but we had better wait until we've returned to the city. I don't want you to get distracted."

Isleatias concedes to this logic with a sigh and says no more of the matter, but as they head deeper into the catacombs, still his hand comes up, again and again, to play with the necklace and its gem cut into the shape of a moon.

_I will be worthy of this,_ he thinks, over and over, and that gives him some strength until they reach the frozen statue.

* * *

"Excuse me, Lady Adrina?"

Adrina stops before she can pass Isleatias by in the hallway of the mansion. She offers the younger elf a gentle smile, though concern flashes in her eyes. "What is it, Isleatias?"

Isleatias looks down and wrings his hands, colour flooding his cheeks and the tips of his ears. "I… don't mean to impose," he says, almost stammers, "but… the masquerade tonight. I… I don't have anything to wear…" He shifts on his feet, eyes darting this way and that. "I don't know if this is some affront to your dignity for me to ask, but Tyril's—preoccupied—and I didn't know—"

Adrina silences him with a hand on his shoulder. She forces him to meet her gaze. "Easy. It's all right. We're operating on very short notice here, but I'd be happy to help you find something to wear," she says, and Isleatias visibly relaxes.

"Thank you," he breathes. "I wish I could have asked sooner, but…"

"There's no need to apologise. I know what's been going on. Tyril told Father and me everything as soon as you got back from the catacombs." Adrina's smile disappears, replaced by sorrow. "You've done so much to support him. I want to help you continue to do so."

Isleatias nods and blows out a long breath. "Your brother's been through a lot. I'll do everything I can. Tonight and henceforth."

"Good, good. Now, come with me. Let's find someplace more private to talk." Adrina leads him into a study and shuts the door behind them, but she does not take a seat. Instead, she stands just inside the door; Isleatias, by instinct, puts a respectful distance between them and keeps his head bowed, his hands clasped behind his back.

Adrina looks him up and down, scrutinising him for a long moment. "Well, let's see. We haven't the time to introduce you to the various fabrics and patterns and rules of formal dress. I can put something together for you—only tell me the colours you think you'd like to wear."

Isleatias swallows and nods again, and once more, his hand comes up to clasp his necklace. "Well, I've always liked purple and blue… dark, cool colours like those… but…" A pause, then he seems to remember that time is pressing and forces himself to continue. "Lady Adrina, your ancestor—Lady Farin—she said I have the blood of House Nightbloom. Neither she nor Tyril could tell me if I belong to that family, but… maybe… that would help…?"

At these words, Adrina's brow lifts. "House Nightbloom? Truly?" she murmurs, and Isleatias unhooks his necklace from around his neck and shows it to her. "Ah! The moon of the House. Yes, this is as sure a sign as my ancestor's word that you are of Nightbloom blood."

"Is that a good thing? What can you tell me about them?"

Adrina briefly chews her lip. "They were a good family, well respected, known for producing some of our finest battlemages and our most devout priests. Their lineage could be traced to our very earliest days, even before the founding of Valen. It was a sad day, indeed, when they fell."

"What happened?"

"The last head of the family, Lord Roshan," Adrina says as she hands the necklace back to him, "was an illusionist, not a battlemage. And he was always rather… odd. You must understand that it is a rare honour for us to be allowed to speak with our ancestors in Elhalas—the greatest honour, in fact. But Lord Roshan claimed to have received visions from them almost every night."

"Like a prophet?"

She nods. "Most of us did not know what to make of it. We thought he spoke nonsense. But towards the end of his wife, Halani's first pregnancy, Roshan claimed to have had a vision of impending doom—and of something far greater, some incredible destiny for his child. When the baby was born, some twenty-five years ago, Roshan and Halani shipped the poor thing out of the city to escape the doom Roshan said had been laid upon the pair of them. None knew where the child was sent, for they soon disappeared into the tunnels leading to the catacombs. Their…" Adrina sighs, and her lip quivers a little. "Their frozen statues were found a few years later. Much as you found Kaya's."

Isleatias stares at her, lost for words. "Stars above. The Shadow Court…?"

"Yes."

"And the child?"

"A boy. He left with a necklace that had been an heirloom of the house. _Your_ necklace."

He stares, looks down at the necklace. His cheeks turn violet once again. "You think I'm that child?"

"It would seem so. Isleatias… 'man crowned with Light'… you look twenty-five… you have that necklace… and you have Lord Roshan's face and eyes."

Here, Isleatias cannot help but sag into a nearby seat. "Hells. If only I had known this sooner…"

Adrina offers him a melancholic smile. "Father can probably tell you more than I. Lady Halani was a friend of his. But for the moment, we must worry about the masquerade. Tyril has told me you wish to join us for good, once your quest is over. So, knowing what you do now… how do you wish to present yourself to us?"

For a long moment, Isleatias does not respond, and his eyes rove as he turns this new information, this dreadful revelation, over in his head. But at last, he says, "I still know little of what it means to be an elf. Of House Nightbloom. Of my parents. Of who I _am_ , even. But I would like to try. I would like to be presented as a Nightbloom, as Lord Roshan and Lady Halani's lost son, come home at last. It may not mean much to me yet, but… if it helps me earn a place…"

"It will also gain you everyone's attention," Adrina remarks. "We have not _waited_ for the lost child to return, not precisely. But it is an event that would garner considerable interest."

Isleatias lets out a weak chuckle. "I'll do it, anyway. I want you to accept me as one of your own, no matter what trials that comes with."

"Ah, you are a brave man," Adrina says. When she smiles this time, it is more genuine. "I can see why Tyril is so taken with you. Very well, then. Come with me. I'll take you to the seamstress—I think I know exactly the outfit you need." She opens the door and strides out, and Isleatias follows after her, his head clouded with visions of a past long ago and parents never known.

* * *

"Time to put on your outfit, Isleatias," Adrina says later, almost cutting across the moment shared between him and Tyril, the promise of a dance. She shoots him a knowing grin as she pokes her head out from behind the screen. Isleatias sucks in a deep breath and heads around.

There, on a table, rests the outfit they put together earlier: a tunic and jerkin of deep purple and blue, with dark trousers, all three elaborately decorated and embroidered with silver patterns that shine as bright as the moon in the sky. Plain black boots with silver buckles rest on the ground, and to the side of the jerkin is a black robe with an open front and two silver chains waiting to be connected to the other side of the cloth. On top is a mask, also black, studded with a few jewels.

"You'll make quite a statement in this," she whispers to him, much like a conspirator. "Remember, the number and placement of the jewels on the mask indicate your place in society. In your case, that you're underage and haven't yet been formally presented."

He nods. "And yours and Tyril's…?"

"That we are adults and have been introduced to society. Father's, that he is the head of our house."

"Right, right." When he says no more, Adrina pulls away, leaving him to dress in private. As he puts on each garment, a feeling comes over him—that of belonging, rightness, _elvenness_.

_This is what I should be. What my parents denied me, if Adrina was correct about me… Why?_ A bitter thought, but Isleatias does his best to shove it aside as he clambers into his trousers. The material is stiff on him, but he ignores it in the face of how _proper_ it seems.

When he has dressed, Isleatias stares at himself in the mirror for a long moment. _An elf, at long last. Oh, I wish I didn't have to take this off!_ Then, a small grin breaking out over his face, he turns and pulls back the screen, showing himself.

"Whoa." Imtura is the first to react, and Isleatias' grin only widens as he takes in the expression on her face.

Nia looks equally amazed, and perhaps even a little awed. "Isleatias! I've never seen you so…"

" _Gorgeous,_ " Mal says, and Isleatias' smile now turns into a smirk. Much like Mal did, earlier, he affects a mock bow before lifting his eyes to meet Tyril's gaze—and promptly feeling his cheeks turn violet yet again.

"Resplendent," Tyril breathes, and Isleatias can't quite stop the giggle from bursting out of him as he rises from his bow. It is a bit harder to tell Tyril's facial expression with the mask in the way—but he knows attraction and perhaps even _desire_ when he sees it. He hugs himself and leans on one foot, doing his best not to tug at the fabric, and some foolish part of him wonders what a pair he and Tyril might make on the dance floor.

Threep and Adrina are no less fulsome in their praise, and Isleatias can't help but rub the back of his neck in embarrassed gratitude. "Aw, you guys. We're about to be the best-dressed party crashers Undermount's ever seen."

Moments later, Tyril's father enters and announces the arrival of the carriage, and it is not long before they all six of them are making their way outside. They are just at the door, however, when Valir Starfury stops and does something of a double-take, looking Isleatias over. "Are those… Nightbloom colours?" he murmurs, then his eyes snap up to Isleatias' mask. "What is this?"

Isleatias' blush returns in full force. Tyril and Adrina hurry to explain as they all head outside and approach the carriage. "It's a long story, Father, but we have reason to believe that Isleatias is the son of the late Lord Roshan and Lady Halani," Adrina says. "The baby you helped get out of the city, twenty-five years ago."

While Valir's eyes widen, Tyril nudges Isleatias. "Show him the necklace." Quickly, while they get into the carriage, Isleatias unhooks it again and presents it to the older man.

Valir's breath audibly catches. "The heirloom necklace… stars above, I don't believe this." He looks at Isleatias again, probing, searching. "Gods, you _do_ have his face. Roshan's face. How did I not see it before?"

Tyril chuckles. "I think you were somewhat preoccupied with me when you first saw him," he says.

"Wait, you said you helped Roshan and Halani get me out of the city?" Isleatias says, almost demands.

Valir nods. "Yes. The very day you were born, in fact. It fair broke your parents' hearts to give you up, but Roshan was so insistent… Well, mere hours after you were born, they came to me and Tyril's mother and begged our aid. We helped find a wet nurse, and you were handed over to her and sent out of the city. She returned some months later, and I am pleased to see you did as well. I only wish your mother and father had lived to see the day."

Isleatias bows his head. "I suppose I should thank you for the assistance, even if I don't understand why it was needed," he says.

"You were a precious thing, Isleatias," Adrina says, rather absent-mindedly. "A bit premature, but you squalled as loud as any other infant I've ever heard. You insisted on wrapping your hands around the finger of whoever was holding you." A fond smile comes over her face—then drops in the next instant as everyone in the carriage turns to stare at her.

"I'm sorry, what? You saw me?" Isleatias gasps.

Adrina now grimaces. "Yes… I did. I remember it quite clearly. I didn't see you for _long_ , but I saw you."

Isleatias keeps staring at her for a long moment before turning to Tyril, who shakes his head; his own cheeks are faintly purple, too. "Did _you_?"

Tyril lets out a nervous laugh. "Yes," he says, shifting where he sits and not meeting Isleatias' gaze. "I… may have held you."

While Mal and Imtura guffaw, Isleatias shakes his head, stunned into silence for a long moment. "You… never mentioned this. Any of this!"

"I had my suspicions, but I was unable to confirm them until… until what we saw in the crypts," Tyril says. "And right then would not have been the best time to say anything. I assume Adrina told you?"

"She did. Well… okay. But… wait. How old were you two?"

Tyril's cheeks flush even darker while Valir laughs awkwardly to himself and buries his face in his hands. "Adrina was forty-five. Tyril was fifty-two," he says.

A brief pause, in which Imtura, Nia, and Mal all wear almost identical expressions of shocked disbelief. Isleatias' jaw drops as he stares between the three Starfuries. "You were already a grown man when I was a _newborn_?"

Tyril nods once, refusing to meet his gaze. "That… yes."

At that, Isleatias falls silent, sitting back in his seat and shaking his head again. Mal lets out a low whistle. "Well, good job at making the rest of _us_ feel like babies, lordling. And here I was calling you _elf boy_."

That seems to break some of the tension, as Tyril's chuckle this time is more genuine, less forced. "Indeed, that nickname would be better applied to Isleatias. I'm seventy-seven—a fully mature, though young man by elven standards. But we might perhaps be better off discussing _strategy_ for the upcoming event," he adds, more loudly, and the conversation is quickly steered towards a less awkward subject.

* * *

As the madness rages behind him, as Tyril rushes towards the newly revealed Xenia and Mal, Imtura, and Nia recover themselves, impulse seizes him. The assembles elves are panicked, too shocked to act, and somehow, Isleatias knows that rallying them must be his job. That they should have to look to an outcast is strange… but their eyes have been on him all evening, their whispers have followed him. If he wants to earn his place, perhaps this is where he starts.

So he smashes a crystal goblet on the floor and climbs up on the table, drawing their eyes to him, and he tears the mask off so they may see his face better. "Elves of Undermount!" he cries, in the best elven he can manage. "My people! I don't claim to know you, and I am only an outcast and a stripling and perhaps a human in elven skin, but let me speak to you as an equal! Duchess Xenia may compare your petty rivalries to the evil she and her kind allow to fester, but she is _wrong!_ _She_ is a creature of shadow and malice! _We_ are the heirs to the elven empire!" He swallows, taking more joy and more terror than he ever has in that 'we'.

"Don't let her make you doubt yourselves! It was _our_ people who drove back the Dreadlord once! We can help do it again!"

The nobles look amongst each other, and a single whisper is passed among them. "Listen to the Nightbloom boy. Listen to Roshan and Halani's son!" The words thrill down his spine, and despite the situation, Isleatias smiles.

_My people._

"Guards! Everyone! Find your weapons!" one man cries. "We will defend Undermount!"

"We'll defeat this fiend!" a woman screams—and that is all the incentive they need to scatter and find their weapons and rush towards the Duchess. For half a moment, Isleatias foolishly lets himself bask in the satisfaction that _they listened to him_.

Then he hears Tyril scream behind him, and seconds later, he's back on the floor, and the Shard, the crown, and bloody vengeance for Kaya and, perhaps, the parents he never knew, are all that's on his mind.

Much later, when all is said and done, when nothing remains of Duchess Xenia but dust and the broken pieces of the crown she wore, Isleatias stands among the crowd and watches the restoration of House Starfury and the ascension of Adrina. A tiny smile tugs at the corner of his mouth as he observes, and though this is all still so new to him, it feels right to see House Starfury restored to its proper place all the same. There is some good that has come out of this, even if he can still see the shadows of grief and hatred in Tyril's face, barely hidden behind his joy for his sister.

"But Tyril and I are not the only ones you should be thanking," Adrina says after she has given her thanks. Isleatias has half a moment to brace himself before she turns her gaze on him. "My brother's friends played just as great a role in ending this menace. In particular, I think young Isleatias deserves special commendation for his efforts."

And with that, every pair of eyes in the room is on him. The man and woman from the Council of Houses step forth, clearly intrigued, and they look him over, taking in every line of him. "Indeed, you do," the woman says, and she smiles. "You have done your people a great service. You rose faster to defend us than even those raised in Undermount. Pray tell us, what is your name? Which family do you belong to?"

Isleatias swallows and stands up straight. "My name is Isleatias. I am a stripling and an orphan raised by humans. I cannot say with any certainty that this is true, but I have been told that I am the son of Lord Roshan and Lady Halani Nightbloom, who were killed by the Shadow Court many years ago. I don't know what that means, for I know nothing of our world, but…"

That sets murmurs going among the assembled nobles. The man nods, seeming more intrigued than ever. "Their lost child. We've heard the stories. You caused quite a stir when you turned up wearing Nightbloom colours and their heirloom necklace. But a claim is so easily made… Who would vouch for him?"

Valir Starfury steps forth. "I do, Lord Sunstrider. I was there when his parents sent him out of the city, and he has the look of his father."

The man and woman look at each other, then they nod. "Then it is settled," the woman says, and she shifts her gaze to him. "Your family's property was divided among the other Houses after the deaths of your parents, and you are too young to take a place among the Council. But when you reach maturity, should you wish it, you will be allowed to reform House Nightbloom and rebuild it as you see fit. And after what you have accomplished here tonight, I am certain there will be no shortage of people willing to help you."

Isleatias' breath leaves him, and he bows so deep that his forehead almost touches the floor. "It would be my greatest honour, my lord and lady. You cannot imagine how much I have dreamt of having a place here."

The man smiles. "Then welcome to Undermount, my lord, and welcome back to your people," he says, and Isleatias reaches up to dash away the tears forming in his eyes. One slips down his face when he sees Tyril gazing on him with unabashed pride.

_My people. Thank you so much._

* * *

Two days later, just before their departure, Isleatias heads out of the manor and leans on a nearby railing. He gazes out over the view of Undermount, admiring yet again the magic, the history evident in every stone, the beauty and the majesty, and most of all, the rightness that floods through his veins _as_ he admires them. He is back in the clothes he brought in with him from the outside, but he clings to his old necklace with new understanding, and he has swept his hair back, made it neater, styled it in elven fashion. Even his bearing seems different—a little more regal, a little surer of himself. Somehow, he looks like an elven youth, and not just a youth who happens to be an elf.

"A nice change, kit," Mal had said, "but if you turn into one of those snobby nobles, so help me—"

Isleatias had only laughed. "Have a little faith, Mal. I'm still me. I also just happen to be an _elf_ now. For real."

"Meaning you weren't before?" Mal had teased, dryly, but there had been a soft warmth in his eyes as he gazed on Isleatias. "Hey, if this place suits you, then that's great," he added. "It's good having a place you know you can come back to when all this is over."

"And where I can learn to be me, or a better form of me," Isleatias had said. Then he had headed out the door to observe the view.

Now, Tyril joins him, leaning on the railing next to him. "I sense you don't want to leave," he says, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

Isleatias shakes his head. "No. Never. But I know I can come back once this is all done. I know I'll have people like you here, helping me learn what it means to be an elf. I know I have a place here, and I know I've impressed them. That's enough for now."

"Worth the trip, then?"

The younger elf grins, a sparkle coming into his eyes as he looks up at Tyril. "Absolutely. Even despite everything that happened—" and for a moment, he sobers—"I'm so glad we did this. Now I feel like…" He pauses for a moment. "Well, I have a past. And a family. And I feel like an elf, now. More than I ever did. But I also know it was always part of me, will always be just a part of me. That's… freeing."

Tyril affectionately strokes his hair with a finger. "It must be. To no longer live with that anguish… I am glad for you that it is so."

"Maybe not entirely free of it, but I feel _good_ ," Isleatias says. "Whatever's coming, I can face it, knowing this is waiting for me. And whatever happened before… I'm sorry it did, but I can't regret a bit of this."

A brief, comfortable silence, then Isleatias looks up at Tyril again. "Thank you, by the way," he says. "For bringing me here. For teaching me what you have. For everything. As much as I've done for you, you've done as much for me. I couldn't have got through this without you, either."

Tyril smiles again, wider and for longer. "I was glad to help you. To be the one to introduce you to all this, to your heritage—even to your past—it's an honour."

Isleatias blushes and leans his head into Tyril's shoulder. "A past that involved you meeting me when I was a baby, apparently," he says, and Tyril laughs softly. "To think you were already a grown man… well, never mind, I can handle it. And here we are now, and you're showing me how to be an elf. You… I feel so much worthier, so much stronger, when I'm around you."

Tyril, in response, cups his jaw with a hand and presses a soft kiss to his mouth. Isleatias giggles as their lips brush. When they pull away, Tyril rests their foreheads together and keeps stroking his hair, gentle as he could possibly be. "You're worthy enough on your own. Our people see that now. I'm not arrogant enough to claim responsibility for that."

"The same could be said of you," Isleatias reminds him, brushing his lips against Tyril's cheek. Tyril flushes and says nothing, but he doesn't need to, not with the warmth in his eyes.

Imtura's shout that they need to get moving breaks the moment, but Tyril is still smiling as he turns away and heads back into the manor. As Isleatias follows after him, his heart doing somersaults in his chest, he spares the scenery of Undermount one last glance. Something new floods through his veins, a glowing warmth that makes everything seem a little bit brighter and more hopeful—something like love, maybe.

_I miss you already,_ he thinks as he heads inside. _But you'll be home one day. I belong here, I think. And I think… I'm worthy of it._


End file.
